


Hanging On

by mr-finch (soubriquet)



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Dismemberment, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Okay don't get too scared by that last tag, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 10:22:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16574654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soubriquet/pseuds/mr-finch
Summary: Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt: painful transformation.The most famous person with hooded crow wings is Frank Castle.





	Hanging On

_Corvus cornix._  The hooded crow. It is common throughout Europe all the way down to the Middle East. Being a member of the Corvidae family, it is omnivorous, opportunistic and intelligent. Its ability to adapt to a wide variety of environments, foodstuffs and temperatures make it supremely capable of surviving.

The most famous person with hooded crow wings is Frank Castle.

The bird suits him. It’s not always true that the avifauna matching your wings will match your character too, but Frank’s does, without a doubt. 

The plumage looks good on him too. His blunt, black flight feathers diverge into ash grey coverts as his wings meet his body, and a spattering of black down marks his chest. Even the bird looks like it’s wearing a skull.

By contrast, David’s cormorant wings are long and thin. _Phalacrocorax auritus_  are fish-eaters: underwater hunters. David can’t say he’s ever had a particular fondness for swimming - mostly because it’s kind of a weird hobby and very species-specific if you want to get into it. 

His wing feathers are round at the tip and a dusky, peppered brown. Softer down grows deep in his beard and at his temples, like the crests his bird is named for. The rest of him is very human, but in the right light, if he opens his mouth, it will shine a very faint blue. 

Unlike Frank, cormorants are a common type of wings to have in North America. It isn’t a huge surprise to David that Frank is unusual: he is, after all, unique.

Only someone with uncommon DNA could be as good at killing people as Frank Castle. Only someone with a short, manoeuvrable wingspan could spin in place, dive to the ground and squeeze off shot after successful shot at his enemies.

Sometimes, David thinks - David has thought, many nights during their stay together - the military really does get it wrong. Eagle wings look good, all right, but Gunner’s golden eagle bulk made him slow, better at digging in and blasting a hole in the offense than running in to cut them down.

Long campaigns with the enemy miles away: those can be useful for heavy-winged people. But close combat? Hand-to-hand fights where every movement has to be fast, precise and accurate? They can't be slow. A passerine can rip a hole in the enemy’s defense better than a condor.

The Agencies understand this. They recruit based partially on skill, partially on appearance. Field agents who blend in with the populace they’ve been sent to are far more likely to be successful. Interviewers whose avifauna run close to their subjects' can build a repertoire that might be impossible for conflicting wing types. 

Intelligence analysts and other desk roles are not so heavily keyed towards appearance. David doesn’t stick out around his colleagues; he blends in, as he always does. Brown is never dramatic.

That’s one reason why he approaches Madani. Her feathers are a startling electric blue on a dark background, melting into fuchsia and orange as they meet her skin. An oriental dwarf kingfisher, it says on her record. She will never have faded into the background.

"I can give you the names of everyone involved in Kandahar,” he says, and she turns towards him in the bar.

It’s only later - much, much later - when he’s sitting pretty in her Homeland office with his family again, that he realises something he should have long before. Frank’s a crow, and a small one at that. He can handle himself in a fight, but only if he’s free to manoeuvre.

Catch him, and he’s vulnerable. Like a bird in a cage.

He leaves it as long as he can. He really does. Frank deserves his chance, after all he’s done for him. He needs this opportunity, which is perhaps his last, to revenge his lost family. David has to give it to him.

Madani’s feathers ruffle and she glares at him when he edges into her room.

“Look,” he says, nudging her aside and logging into her computer. “We didn’t tell you everything. We set them up.”

She peers sharply at the screen next to him, watching the numbers flick by with barely-restrained tension. When he logs into the file exchange account and the image flickers up on screen, both of them blanch back.

“Where is this?” Madani arches around the computer screen like a manding bird of prey as David stumbles backwards. “David, _where is this?”_

Backed up against the windows, David is pinned like a mounted butterfly. He cannot answer, though his mouth is open in horror. His wings drag on the floor, hanging down on either side like corpses hung from meat hooks.

Frank- Frank, with those blunt, deadly wings. Covered in blood. Tortured, in one of the worst ways he can imagine.

“We’ve got to stop this,” Madani says, and turns to him. She grabs him by the lapel and shakes him. “Get it together. Show me where he is."

As they ride out together in the screaming security van, David hears nothing but the sirens. His hands are covered in blood. No, they aren’t - but his hands are covered in Frank’s blood.

It doesn’t take long for the precognition to become truth. Gunfire leads them in, as well as shouts: sightings of Billy Russo and his glossy magpie wings darting out a door. David spots Frank immediately: drenched in blood and sprawled unnaturally on his back on the ground, with Rawlins next to him.

David throws himself to his knees, one wing curving over to cover him. “Frank,” he says, fingertips pressing against his face, seeking the man inside the skin. “Frank. C’mon, buddy.”

David darts a glance at the mess on either side of Frank’s shoulders: the dark red pools spreading out on the concrete ground. “Please.” 

He shuts his eyes to block out the sight and presses his forehead against Frank’s. “Please, Frank. I’m here. Wake _up._ "

When Frank’s eyes roll open, his breath juddering in and out of him, David’s fingers bite into his arms like talons. “That’s it.” He eyes the mess again, and reaches down to undo his own belt. “Stay with me. That’s it.”

Just as David has the belt in hand and is leaning forward over Frank, Madani reaches them. David shoots her a look which is both murderous and pleading, which gets him a nod and another belt.

Frank doesn’t last long when they touch him. A broken gasp is all the noise he makes, like the last agonised breath of a dog in the road. David finds some purchase on the slippery, traumatised feathers and secures the belt tight. Madani is right beside him, but Frank is out before she makes her own tourniquet.

“We’ve gotta get him out of here,” David hisses through his teeth. He doesn’t know if this is the closest Frank’s ever come to death, but if they wait much longer or send him somewhere public it will be. “No hospitals. No cops.”

Madani gives him an assessing look, then nods. “Grab his legs.”

“What about-?” David glances at the two pieces of Frank a few feet away, left like dead bodies on the floor. He can’t leave them there. He can’t let them just be evidence.

Madani beckons an agent over, but as the guy heads not towards them but to the pieces on the ground, David snaps his wings out to their full span and steps forward. “Don’t _touch_  them.” 

When the agent steps back, David folds his wings back and heads over. He picks up each of Frank's dark, familiar wings one at a time, very gently and with great care. Both of them leak blood as he folds them into a resting position and turns to follow Madani.

The agent is sent away once they reach the car. Madani is, at least, good at keeping her word.

At her place, her father stabilises Frank like it’s nothing, but won’t touch the wings outside a surgical theatre. Which is good, because David doesn’t think he could let them go. He wraps them in his jacket and sets them upright in the freezer, closing the door with a soft click.

Time passes. Frank’s veins suck up David’s blood like it’s oxygen. David watches the transfer happen rather than reach for his phone or a book. He has a few cookies and a glass of juice beside him, but he’s barely managed a thing.

Devengiration. One of the most disgusting, disgraceful things you can do to a human being. Like the man himself, Frank’s wings were beautiful: agile, strong and backed by tough black feathers. Now, of the six bones, only half his alterhumeri remain, the alterradii and alterulnae gone, lost forever. Carved from his body like Rawlins was butchering a carcass.

Hamid has cleaned the endings as best he can, plucked the surrounding feathers and sewn the muscle and skin shut, but that’s not much comfort to either of them. Frank is propped on his side while he sleeps so that he doesn’t reopen his wounds and it gives David a perfect view of the destruction.

They’ve been left alone for now, while Madani goes after Russo and her parents argue over their decision to take them in. There’s water left in the bowl Hamid used to wash Frank’s face and when David checks, it’s still warm. 

He glances at Frank, resting now. He knows he should leave the guy alone. Fuck knows how he’s feeling. Donating his blood and his time is the best he can do. 

David’s not a doctor, or a physiotherapist - or, David thinks, a child - whose attentions would be tolerated in this scenario. Wings are some of the most personal parts of the human body and touching them is akin to reading someone's diary or going for their crotch. Save for innocence or medical treatment, only those closest to the owner should ever go near them.

It’s just that the plume of ash grey feathers are tangled and twisted, sticking together in clumps and going black with all of the blood and muck smeared on them. Plus, with that kind of injury, Frank’s not going to be able to reach back to get it all out for a long, long time.

David has the washcloth in his hand before he really decides one way or the other. He glances at the door, which is shut. At least they’re alone. As he reaches over, he half expects Frank to wake and swing at him.

Oh, close up the sight is so terrible. Without the long broad arms of his wings arching upwards, Frank’s shoulders peek out above them and look so bare and shallow. The new ends of his wings are an angry red, split by thick black stitches. He can see that even through the bandages.

David touches a small twisted feather experimentally, before he plucks it the rest of the way out and runs his fingers reflexively through the thick down at the dip of Frank’s back, the way he would if he was preening Sarah.

Realising what he’s doing, he yanks his hand back and freezes. Frank’s torso continues to rise and fall, rise and fall: asleep. He really shouldn’t be doing this.

David sits back in his chair, but then another feather that has been shoved upwards catches his eye and he can’t help it: he leans forward again, nudging the IV line out the way with his elbow so that it doesn’t catch. He pulls the chair he’s sitting on as close to the bed as possible, getting right up close to Frank’s back.

He’ll just deal with the worst ones. That’s what he’ll do. Frank will appreciate that.

He starts between Frank’s shoulder blades, where the feathers are thickest.

The bad ones are easy enough to find. This one is damaged beyond repair. That one has been bent sideways. This one is all caught up in fluff and blood. That one is already almost out.

As he gets into a rhythm, David forgets to be self-conscious. The feeling that wells up in his chest is not shame or lust but an overwhelming sense of concern. He narrows his vision to the few inches between his fingertips and forces himself not to look at the flesh damage, because if he does he might break. He doesn’t know how Frank hasn’t already.

He follows the grey back feathers onto the remnants of Frank’s wings, where they become coverts. He was able to scratch the drops of blood out of downy feathers with his fingernails, but these need proper cleaning. Luckily, Frank is not a waterbird like him. The droplets will run straight off him along with all of the dirt.

David dips the washcloth in the tepid water, squeezes, then presses it to the grey feathers. He runs each feather through his fingers as he dabs at them, removing all of the evidence of the trauma they’ve just been through. Covert after covert after covert.

It’s when he’s manipulating a tertiary feather on Frank’s right wing that he realises, suddenly and with a ripple of dread, that Frank is awake.

He freezes, letting go of the feather and shooting back into his seat. The bowl of water drops to the floor and spins circles on the wooden boards, making as much noise as possible. Well, if Frank wasn’t already awake, he is now.

He shifts his shoulders and David sees the moment he feels the unnatural lack of weight. The spike of tension; the shooting pain. “David,” Frank says, his voice rough and unused. “How’d I get here?”

“Madani and I carried you,” David says, scratching his beard with nerves. “You were half dead.”

“I’ve been half dead a bunch of times,” Frank says, quietly.

“Not like this.”

Frank tilts his head back and glances over as far as he can, which isn’t much. “W’you preening me, Lieberman?”

David exhales, shaking his head. Now that it’s come to the accusation, he’s mad. Really mad. “Of course I fucking was,” he says. “You’re my _friend._ ”

When Frank doesn’t answer, David looks at the gauze-covered ends. They’re seeping faintly through the tape. “And that skua fuck butchered you."

Frank makes a noise of agreement. “Not much left, huh?”

David presses his lips together and shakes his head, even though Frank can’t see him. “Not much.”

Frank goes silent for a couple of minutes, and David almost thinks he’s gone to sleep, when the remaining few feathers twitch. “Help me roll over,” Frank says. 

David gets up and grabs more pillows from the wardrobe, careful not to go far enough away that the IV line will yank out of both of them. He stuffs the pillows into a wedge on the other side of Frank, then meets his eyes. “This is gonna hurt.”

“I know that, dipshit.” Frank looks horrendous from the front too: two huge black eyes dominate his face along with numerous splits in his skin. He begins to tilt over onto his belly, unable to stop a noise escaping through his teeth.

When he slips, David catches him by the shoulder and hears a muttered _thanks_ as Frank lowers himself onto his stomach.

“Why don’t you stay there?” David asks him, as Frank catches his breath. “You didn’t lose any organs from the front, right?”

After a few puffs of air, Frank grunts, then begins to roll over onto his other side without answering. He gets about halfway before his back buckles and he lets out a agonised noise, only for David to grab hold of him again.

“This is the absolute opposite of bedrest,” David protests. He braces Frank on his side and starts pushing the pillows up against his back and shoulder, helping him do this stupid move even though he’s probably only hurting him.

Lucky for him, Frank’s in too much pain to argue. When he’s done, David clambers onto the bed to join him, scooting back against the headboard and resting his elbow on one raised knee.

He’s glad Frank is awake and lively enough to injure himself, he really is, but christ the man is an idiot.

“What was that for?” he asks him, addressing his back again, once the lines of tension in Frank’s skin have started to smooth out. “Pins and needles?”

In response, Frank lifts his now freed left wing as far out as he’s able. It looks painful and it doesn’t take long for him to let it fall back into place with a grunt. He makes a little noise that’s a cross between amused and exhausted. “Still can’t read me, David?”

David begins to say no, when a ripple spreads like a wave across Frank’s back, running from his spine all the way to his wing tips. Each feather lifts and exposes the down beneath, fluffing up in wafts of ashen grey.

It makes Frank look _soft_  and sweet in a way David doesn’t think he’s ever seen before, except in the way Frank has spoken about Leo and Zach and his face in the moment David forgave him for kissing his wife.

“You- you want-"

“Like you said,” Frank says, muffled against the pillow. “We’re friends."

David’s lips quirk in a surprised, but outrageously pleased, smile. He reaches over Frank for the bowl he rescued from the floor and soaks the washcloth again, glad there’s some water left.

He takes his time on this wing. He dealt with most of the down on Frank’s back earlier, so he dedicates his efforts to the remaining flight feathers on this wing: only tertiaries left, but flights nonetheless. As he draws his fingers through each one, he feels Frank’s shivering response to the rasp of the barbs and their return to lightness with each sweep of the cloth.

Preening is a very intimate activity. David won’t pretend it’s not. His own feathers are aching with the desire to fluff up in response. He also knows that Frank letting himself be tended in any way is a greater intimacy for him and, ultimately, much harder.

So he ignores the puff of feathers standing on end at the nape of his neck and only lets his wings rest outwards a little further than usual.

It doesn’t take long to finish cleaning him. With Frank’s consent now clear, David is less tentative and combs through the feathers with a stronger hand. When it's done, David hesitates. 

Frank shifts, reaching back stiffly with one hand. He indicates a spot buried low in the small of his back. 

David doesn’t say anything. He knows what it is. 

In response, Frank draws back his hand and says: “Can’t make it worse.”

David is very sure he can, but he can’t run off and leave Frank alone now with the job half-done. So he reaches for the dip in the small of Frank’s back and pushes aside the downy grey feathers there, seeking his uropygial gland.

Some people are born with these. Others use the dust from their cast-off feathers to create a protective layer. The rich, lazy, and young use store-bought preen oil, a bottle of which Leo uses every day on her plumage as it pushes past her first moult and sheds its keratin feather sheaths.

That’s what David should be thinking about right now: Leo. Not the little nodule buried in Frank’s feathers that pushes up in response to his touch and coats his fingers with oil. It’s obscene to be thinking about how intimate this is in any way other than platonically. 

David sets his mind to such mundane topics as redecorating the garage and gardening in an effort to forget the deep flush on his face.

He slicks up both hands - _should he plant petunias or lilies?_ \- and begins to coat Frank’s feathers with oil. It’s a protective measure, really. It will help to waterproof and clean Frank’s wings, which seems even more important now. It will also go some way towards protecting them from wear, just like the preening itself.

“I’ve always liked these,” David says, unbidden, and wants to hit himself.

“Yeah?” Frank shifts beneath his touch. “Why’s that?”

David reaches for the smaller coverts along the upper arm of the left wing and digs his fingers in, delicately pulling on each feather to check its health and then rubbing it with oil. “Well,” he says, “the contrast.”

“Grey and black,” Frank says, in a tone that says _how original._

“I mean it.” David prods Frank where the grey fluff ends just below his neck. “Matches your shiny personality.”

Frank huffs a little laugh. “Thought you were the weird one. They haven’t made computers that still work when you submerge ‘em, waterboy.”

“Actually-“ David begins, then laughs. He works his fingers around to the bare patch surrounding the gauze and goes real gentle, rubbing small circles over the surrounding feathers with his fingertips. “I mean it. You’re pretty unique, Frank.”

Frank starts to say something David’s sure will be sarcastic, but it trails off without really going anywhere. Embarrassed, David carries on with his work and doesn’t elaborate any further. Especially not to say that no one outside of porn would be doing what he’s doing right now.

“I appreciate you takin’ care of me like this,” is what Frank says instead. The exact opposite of what David was expecting, as always. If he wasn’t actively preening his feathers, he would have to double check he was actually talking to Frank Castle.

“You took care of me,” David mumbles back. It’s no lie. Frank got him back to his _family_ and that’s a debt he can never repay.

It’s in that moment that he realises, quite simply, that this is not going to be another injury Frank walks away from. That if he wants to go after Russo today, or tomorrow, or next month, he won’t be able to. Frank’s going to be recovering from this for a very long time.

David thinks shamefully about the package of money in his bag. The easy way he was going to solve some of Frank’s problems and help him move on.

_ That’s not going to happen now. _

He finishes up on Frank’s left wing and lets his hands fall into his lap. He still has to oil the right wing, but for a moment he can’t bear to acknowledge the reality of the state Frank is in.

He’s supposed to be invulnerable. Unstoppable. Maybe David has just been another idiot the Punisher hoodwinked into believing that, but that incessant movement and drive has been a part of Frank for so long that he doesn’t think even Frank has recognised how much it has been hamstringed now. Or wants to.

He sets his hand on the curve of the wing where it joins Frank’s back, without the intention of preening now, but when Frank takes the gesture as a sign to roll over David just sits back and lets him.

When Frank is flat on his belly again, he interrupts David’s thoughts. “Hey. David.”

David pulls himself out of his head and lands himself right in Frank’s pinpoint gaze. He tucks his wings in self-consciously.

“I get it,” Frank says, his eyes serious and honest. David can't look away from him, even if he might want to. “I get it. I know I’m fucked. Can’t even fuckin’ preen myself.”

He exhales, a muscle in his jaw twitching with the effort it takes not to show the pain that simple movement causes: David knows that tell. And the recognition of his understanding softens Frank’s expression, crooking his eyebrows in towards his brow in a mix of confusion and concern.

“I’m not leaving you,” David says. He covers Frank’s closest hand with one of his. Grips it tighter with the fear that Frank might pull away. The feather dust and remnants of oil on his fingers sink into Frank’s bruised, bloodied skin.

Frank looks down at their fists, and, while he doesn’t join their fingers, David feels the back of Frank's hand press up into his palm. “Didn’t think you would.”

David lets out a soft noise of relief. “Yeah.” He runs his free hand through his hair, smiling in spite of himself. “I’ve have to be a pretty awful friend to fuck off now.”

Frank doesn’t respond, but they both know what’s lurking there to be said. It’s what Frank says to people who want to help him, what he would have said at any other time - what David could have sworn he would say today. The fear leaps back into David’s heart in that short pause between them, waiting to be pushed away, before Frank resettles on his stomach and breaks the moment.

Leaning on one hip, Frank lifts his unoiled right wing just slightly off his back. He glances at David from where his cheek is pressed into the pillow and his feathers puff out, asking something without words.

“Sure,” David says, because  _he_ needs this right now too, even if he won’t admit it either. He yearns for the contact just as much as Frank does, after this year, after this time they’ve both spent together: half of it arguing, half of it fighting to save each other’s lives. They’re both beginning to realise that the adrenaline rush is finally coming down, that the year is dropping leaves, building snow and trying to end.

But it’s not going to end with a departure. That’s what Frank has been planning, David realises - David only now admits to himself. He’s been pushing David back towards Sarah and the kids and throwing himself into ever graver danger. 

Keeping things. That’s not something Frank does. He terminates them; it's what he's best at.

This, though. This one concession, among many little concessions, has proven that Frank does have that ability. That he can push past stubbornness and self-destruction in the pursuit of happiness. That his walls, impossible to break for a man like Rawlins, can be knocked down when he finally finds someone he can trust. 

That even though death is something ordinary and habitual for a man like him, he has realised it is worth hanging on.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to SenkoWakimarin who inspired this with their fantastic wingfic universe. Go read Things Change.


End file.
